Alamut

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Express messengers flew with the news of the grand vizier’s murder from one country to the next, arousing fear throughout the great Seljuk realm. It triggered innumerable unforeseen consequences and caused widespread uncertainty and confusion.

The fortress of Gonbadan near the city of Girdkuh, the Ismaili stronghold in Khuzestan, which had been out of food and water and on the verge of surrendering, was liberated from its besiegers overnight, just like Alamut. The grand vizier, the Ismailis’ mortal enemy, was dead. His successor, Taj al-Mulk, was reputed to be Hasan’s friend, so Kizil Sarik’s forces abandoned their siege and dispersed even before the commander received any instructions from the sultan or the new vizier. The way to the castle was free to Hasan’s messenger, who brought Husein Alkeini’s successor, sheik ibn Atash, an order to hand over the murderer of the grand dai. As early as the next day, a large, well-armed caravan transporting Hosein in irons set out for Alamut.

News of the grand vizier’s murder finally reached the sultan’s eldest son, Barkiarok, who was leading a campaign against rebels on the border with India. He turned over command of part of the army to his brother Sanjar, then, with the remaining units, sped precipitously back to Isfahan to defend his inheritance and thwart any possible designs of his step-mother Turkan Khatun and her vizier, Taj al-Mulk.

In the meantime, in Isfahan Taj al-Mulk had made all preparations to proclaim four-year-old Mohammed the heir to the throne. The chief opponent of this plan was now gone, and the wavering sultan had no one to shore up his will against the demands of his youngest and most determined wife. Just then he was in Baghdad observing some of the greatest celebrations and ceremonies ever held. Besides the caliph, more than a thousand subject kings, princes and grandees from all the corners of his empire were paying tribute to him. He was at the height of his glory and power. Not even the death of his loyal advisor of many years could spoil his sense of his own majesty. He wanted for nothing. He was thoroughly happy.

The news of the dispersal of the sultan’s armies outside of Alamut and Gonbadan alerted the cautious Taj al-Mulk to the danger that threatened the realm from his erstwhile ally Hasan. Now that he had taken Nizam al-Mulk’s place as administrator of the great Iranian empire, he felt the full weight of his responsibility for peace and order throughout the realm. The sultan’s firm command that he deal ruthlessly with the Ismailis was practically made to order for him. He immediately relieved the emirs Arslan Tash and Kizil Sarik of their posts and appointed two young and forceful Turkish officers in their place. They were to collect and regroup the scattered units and use them to attack Alamut and Gonbadan once again.

“We’ve had enough excitement lately,” Hasan said to his two dais. “We need a rest so we can get ready to continue the fight. Just as importantly, we need to repair the breaches in our edifice. So let’s try to reach an honorable peace with the sultan.”

A feday named Halfa was assigned to ride to Baghdad with the written terms for the sultan, in which Hasan made the following stipulations: That he return to the Ismailis all of the castles and fortresses they had held before the grand vizier attacked them. The sultan would have to pay reparations for the castles damaged or destroyed. In return, Hasan would pledge not to acquire any new strongholds. At the same time, he would be prepared to defend the entire northern border of the realm against barbarian incursions. The sultan would have to pay him fifty thousand gold pieces per year to maintain that army.

Hasan had to smile as he set his seal on the letter. He sensed full well that his demands were no small provocation. He wondered how the sultan would take them. After all, he was demanding nothing less than that the all-powerful emperor of Iran pay him an annual tax!

Even though Halfa was an authorized messenger, the sultan’s henchmen seized him as early as Hamadan and sent him to Baghdad in chains. At the height of the festivities, the commander of the sultan’s bodyguard delivered Hasan’s letter to his master. The sovereign ripped the seal off of it and read it eagerly. He grew pale. His lips trembled with rage.

“How dare you bring me a vile thing like this in the middle these celebrations?!” he roared at the commander.

The commander of the bodyguard fell prostrate. He begged for mercy.

“Here, read it!” the sultan shouted.

He dismissed the entire court. Now he was free to give vent to his full rage. He tore the curtains and carpets off the doorways and windows, broke everything that was breakable, then collapsed, breathless and gasping, onto some pillows.

“Bring me the villain!” he ordered in a hoarse voice.

They led Halfa in, bound and terrified.

“Who are you?!”

Halfa answered in a stammer.

“A feday?! So you’re a professional murderer!” the sultan wailed.

He leaped to his feet, shoved Halfa to the ground, jumped on him, and worked himself into a fury. At last he drew his saber and used it to hack the poor messenger to death.

His outburst ended just as suddenly as it had come. He grew sober at the sight of the dead body before him. He asked his personal scribe and the commander of his bodyguard for their advice on how to respond to Hasan’s shameless provocation.

“Your Majesty should hasten all military campaigns against the Ismailis,” the commander of the bodyguard advised.

“But the insult itself must also be returned,” his secretary said. “Permit me to compose a response in Your Majesty’s name.”

They decided to send a messenger to Alamut. In his letter the secretary called Hasan a murderer, a traitor and a mercenary of the caliph of Cairo. He ordered him to vacate immediately all of the castles he had seized unlawfully. Otherwise not one stone would be left atop another, and the Ismailis would be wiped out together with their wives and children. He himself would meet with the ultimate punishment. This was how His Majesty ought to reply to him.

A young officer, a certain Halef of Ghazna, was chosen to be the messenger. He mounted his horse and changed it at every station along the way, and in this way he reached Alamut within six days.

Manuchehr had him detained in his tower while he carried the letter to Abu Ali, who in turn delivered it to Hasan.

Hasan read it and then showed it coolly to Abu Ali. He also called for Buzurg Ummid. He told them, “The sultan is blinded by his own greatness and is turning his back on the danger that threatens him. He refuses to recognize us. Too bad for him.”

He ordered the messenger put in chains and brought before him.

Halef resisted being bound.

“This is a crime!” he shouted. “I’m a messenger from His Highness, the sultan and shah of Iran. If you put me in chains, you insult him.”

This was to no avail. He had to appear before the supreme commander in shackles.

“I strongly protest this treatment,” he said indignantly when he came into the antechamber where the commanders were waiting for him.

“Where is my messenger?” Hasan asked him coolly.

“First…,” Halef said, trying to resume his indignant protest.

“Where is my messenger?!”

Hasan’s eyes bore into the officer. His voice was hard and commanding.

Halef stubbornly lowered his eyes. He was silent.

“Have you been struck dumb? Wait! I’ll show you a way to loosen your tongue.”

He ordered a eunuch to show in the executioner with his assistants and their equipment. Then he turned toward the grand dais and began to chat with them casually.

Halef suddenly spoke up.

“I come in the name of His Majesty. I’m only carrying out his orders.”

Hasan ignored his words. He didn’t even look at him.

The executioner and his two assistants arrived. The three of them were real giants. They immediately began to set up a rack. They set a stone urn down on the floor and used a bellows to fan the embers in it. In a separate box there were various implements of torture which rattled unpleasantly when they were set in the corner.

Sweat beaded on Halef’s forehead. He began swallowing so much that his mouth was soon dry.

“How should I know what’s come of your messenger?” he said, his voice trembling. “I was just given an order and I’ve carried it out.”

Hasan acted as though he were deaf.

When the preparations for torture were complete, the executioner spoke.

“Everything is ready, Sayyiduna.”

“Start with burning.”

The executioner took a sharpened iron poker out of the box and began heating it in the fire.

Halef shouted, “I’ll tell you everything I know.”

Hasan still didn’t move.

The poker had become white-hot. The executioner drew it out of the fire and approached the prisoner, who howled when he saw what was coming.

“Sir! Spare me! The sultan cut down your messenger with his saber.”

Only now did Hasan turn to face Halef. He gave the executioner a sign to withdraw.

“So, you’ve regained the gift of speech after all? And the sultan butchered my emissary with his own hands, you say? Bad, very bad.”

This whole time he was thinking how he might outwit the sultan. Now, as he looked at his messenger, a plan suddenly came into focus in his mind.

“Summon the doctor!” he told a eunuch.

Halef was shaking. He could tell that this new command couldn’t be good news for him.

Hasan signaled to the grand dais to follow him into his room.

“We mustn’t be content with half-measures,” he told them. “We have to wound the enemy to the quick if we want to keep him from outpacing us. Let’s have no illusions. From now on the sultan will commit all of his forces to destroying us.”

But what exactly he was planning, he didn’t tell them.

A eunuch announced the arrival of Hakim.

“Have him come in,” Hasan said.

The Greek walked into the room, bowing deeply.

“Did you get a look at the prisoner?” Hasan asked him.

“Yes, he was waiting outside.”

“Go and take another close look at him.”

The Greek obeyed. He came back in a short while.

“Do you know any of the fedayeen who look like him?”

The doctor looked at him, uncomprehending.

“I don’t know what you mean by that, Sayyiduna,” he said. “His face is a little reminiscent of Obeida, peace be upon him.”

Hasan’s eyes flashed impatiently.

“Or maybe… his posture is a little bit like Halfa’s, the one you sent somewhere two weeks ago… Is that wrong too? Or he might resemble Afan? Then I give up… His legs are bowed like Jafar’s… Is that what you were thinking?”

The Greek was covered in sweat.

Hasan laughed.

“You’re a doctor and a skillful barber. How would you feel about, let’s say, turning Jafar into that man?”

Hakim’s face brightened.

“That’s an art I know something about. It’s practiced widely where I come from.”

“There you go, now we’re getting somewhere.”

“Ah, you deign to joke, Sayyiduna. The man waiting outside has a short, curly beard, a slightly broken nose and a large scar on his cheek. It’s a face that was made to be transferred to another. But you must allow me to have the model constantly in front of me when I set to work.”

“Fine. But can you assure me that the similarity will be great enough?”

“One egg couldn’t be more like another… Just give me some time to pull together everything I’m going to need.”

“All right. Go to it.”

The doctor left. Hasan sent for Jafar.

When he arrived, he told him, “I have a remarkable assignment for you. Once you’ve carried it out, the Ismailis will write your name in the stars. Paradise will be wide open to you.”

Jafar remembered ibn Tahir. He was still being celebrated as a martyr, although he had seen him with his own eyes when he returned to Alamut, and then again when he left, his eyes shining with happiness, as he took back the package he had entrusted to him before his departure for Nehavend. One marvelous and impenetrable mystery after the other.

“At your service, Sayyiduna!”

His face shone with pride.

All this time, Halef was enduring fiendish torments of fear and uncertainty in the antechamber. The executioner stood barely a few steps away from him, his brawny arms crossed on his naked chest. From time to time he cast a mocking glance at the emissary. Now and then his assistants fanned the fire. Otherwise, they played with the rack and provocatively inspected the implements of torture.

The doctor returned with the equipment he needed.

Hasan spoke to Jafar.

“First of all, get a good look at the prisoner in the antechamber. You have to remember exactly his every gesture, the way he speaks and expresses himself, and everything he says about himself while I’m interrogating him. Be careful not to miss a thing! Because you’re going to have to imitate him so well that everyone who comes in contact with you thinks you’re him. In other words, you’re going to become him.”

They followed him into the antechamber. He signaled the executioner to be ready. Then he began questioning the prisoner.

“What is your name and where are you from?”

Halef tried to collect himself again.

“I am a messenger of His Majesty…”

Hasan flew into a rage.

“Executioner, ready your equipment!… I’ll warn you one last time to answer all my questions precisely. I’ll tell you now that I’m going to keep you at Alamut. If any one bit of information you give us turns out to be wrong, I’ll have you drawn and quartered in the courtyard below. Now you know where you stand. Speak!”

“My name is Halef, son of Omar. My family is from Ghazna. That’s where I was born and spent my youth.”

“Remember this, Jafar!… How old are you and how long have you been in the sultan’s army?”

“I’m twenty-seven years old. I’ve served in the army since I was sixteen.”

“How did you join the army?”

“My uncle Othman, son of Husein, who’s a captain in the bodyguard, recommended me to His Majesty.”

“The names of the places you’ve been stationed?”

“I went directly to the court at Isfahan. Then I accompanied His Majesty as his messenger throughout the realm.”

He named the cities he had traveled through or had spent any length of time in, then the caravan and military roads they had traveled. As the interrogation continued, he revealed that he had two wives, each of whom had borne him one son. Hasan demanded more and more details. Next came his superior officers, their habits and personal affairs; and then his colleagues, his service and how he spent his time. He described how he got along with one or the other of them, how many times he had spoken to the sultan, and what his relationship to him was like. He told him where his quarters were in Isfahan and Baghdad, and what he had to do if he wanted to be admitted to see His Majesty. He described the precise layout of the sultan’s palace in Baghdad and the approaches to it, and he provided a detailed rundown of court ritual.

In this brief time Jafar discovered an entirely new life and tried to imagine himself leading it.

Finally, Hasan ordered the prisoner to describe his journey to Alamut in detail. He had to list all the stations where he had changed horses or stayed overnight. Then he ordered the executioner to remove the prisoner’s fetters so he could undress.

Halef shuddered.

“What does this mean, sir?”

“Quickly! No dawdling! Don’t force me to use other means. Take off the turban too.”

Halef moaned.

“Anything but that, sir! Don’t shame me like this!”

At a nod from Hasan, the executioner seized him by the neck with one firm hand. One assistant handed over the white-hot poker, which his master slowly brought close to the prisoner’s bare chest. Even before it touched him, the skin sizzled and was scorched.

Halef howled uncontrollably.

“Do whatever you want. Just don’t burn me!”

They took all his clothes off and bound his hands behind his back.

Jafar watched all of this without batting an eye. He was in full command of himself. This fact secretly made him very proud.

“Now it’s time for your skill, doctor,” Hasan said. “Prisoner, how did you get the wounds on your body?”

Still trembling from his recent fright, Halef told about a fight he had had with one of the sultan’s eunuchs. In the meantime the Greek set out a number of thin, sharp blades, a long needle, and various liquids and ointments. Then he told Jafar to bare himself to the waist. He rolled up his sleeves like a true artist. He ordered one of the executioner’s assistants to hold a box that was full of all kinds of remedies. Then he set to work.

First he applied an ointment to the corresponding area of Jafar’s body, onto which he then drew an outline of the scar and a birthmark. He ordered the other assistant to hold the blades and needle in the fire. Then he used these to etch and pierce the skin.

Jafar pressed his lips tight. His face paled slightly from the pain, but when Hasan looked at him, he smiled back, as though it were nothing.

Now Halef slowly began to realize what Hasan’s plan was, and he was horrified. If the transformation was successful, this Ismaili youth would gain unhampered access to the sultan himself! And the murder of the grand vizier was eloquent testimony to what would happen then. I’ll be cursed for having been an accessory to such a crime, he thought. Subdue your fear! something inside him commanded. Think of your duty to the sultan!

His feet were unbound. He waited for the instant when the doctor began to make an incision on Jafar’s face, then he leapt at him and gave him a powerful kick to the gut.

Under the impact of this blow, the Greek dragged the blade halfway across Jafar’s face, which was instantly covered in blood. He himself was thrown to the floor. Halef lost his balance and toppled onto him. His mouth collided with the doctor’s elbow, which he instinctively bit into with all his might. The doctor howled with pain.

Instantly Abu Ali, Jafar and the executioner began to pummel and kick Halef mercilessly to get him to release his victim. But it wasn’t until one of the assistants set a white-hot poker to the prisoner’s back that the latter relented. He howled, writhing on the floor and trying to grab at his injury.

Now Hasan ordered, “Put him on the rack!”

Halef resisted with all his strength, but iron fists soon subdued him. Within a few moments he was bound, spread-eagled, to the rack.

With much groaning, the Greek managed to collect himself in the meantime. He had the wound on his arm washed, treated, and bandaged. Jafar, covered in blood, waited patiently for his transformation to resume.

“The scoundrel has ruined everything,” the Greek moaned when he examined him more closely. “What can I do with this huge wound on his face?”

“Just clean it for now,” Hasan said. “We’ll see what can be done.”

Then he commanded the executioner, “Begin the torture. He’ll be useful again when he’s unconscious.”

The machine started stretching the prisoner’s limbs. His joints popped and his bones creaked. Halef howled in agony.

Hakim was shaken. He himself was a surgeon, but he had never before heard such bestial wailing.

He quickly cleaned Jafar’s wound. Hasan inspected it, then spoke.

“Jafar! You’ll say that the commander of the Ismailis inflicted this wound on you at Alamut as His Majesty’s messenger. That the sultan’s letter enraged him so much that he slashed at you with his saber. Do you understand me?”

“I do, Sayyiduna.”

“Doctor, finish your work.”

All this time Halef had been howling at regular intervals. These became progressively shorter, until the howls merged into a continuous mad roar.

The executioner suddenly stopped the rack. The prisoner had lost consciousness.

“Good,” Hasan said. “Finish your work without us.”

He and the grand dais climbed to the top of the tower.

With a skillful hand the doctor transformed Jafar into Halef, His Majesty’s messenger.

A few hours later, transformed and dressed from head to toe in the prisoner’s clothes, Jafar stepped before the supreme commander. Hasan flinched, the similarity was so great. The same beard, same mustache, the same old scar on his cheek, the same broken nose and even the same birthmark next to his ear. Only the long, fresh wound across his face was different.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Halef, son of Omar. My family comes from Ghazna…”

“Good. Have you memorized everything else too?”

“I have, Sayyiduna.”

“Now listen well. You’re going to saddle your horse and ride toward Baghdad along the same road that the sultan’s messenger used to come to Alamut. You’ll be taking His Majesty a verbal reply from the master of Alamut. You know the stations and the inns along the way. Keep your eyes and ears open. Find out if the sultan has already set out against us. Demand at all costs to be admitted to see him. Do not relent in this! Keep insisting that you can only relay the response to the sultan personally. Tell them how poorly treated you were at Alamut. Do you understand me? Here are a few pellets. Do you recognize them? Take them with you on your journey. Swallow one each night and save the last one for the moment before you’re admitted to see the sultan. Here’s an awl. Hide it on your person carefully, because the slightest scratch could mean death. When you’re standing before the sultan, you know what you have to do to earn paradise for yourself and immortality among the Ismailis in this world. Is everything clear?”

“It is, Sayyiduna.”

Jafar’s cheeks burned feverishly.

“Is your faith strong?”

“It is, Sayyiduna.”

“And your determination?”

“Steadfast.”

“I have faith that you won’t fail me. Take this coin purse. I give you my blessing for your journey. Bring glory to yourself and the Ismailis.”

He dismissed him. Alamut had launched yet another living dagger. Hasan left for the gardens.

Ever since Miriam and Halima had so sadly departed this life, the mood of the garden’s inhabitants had been unrelentingly low. Not just the girls, but the eunuchs and even Apama were affected.

Miriam had been buried in a small clearing amid a grove of cypresses. The girls planted tulips, daffodils, violets and primroses on her grave. Out of a piece of rock, Fatima had carved a handsome monument depicting a woman in mourning. But she couldn’t bring herself to inscribe it with anything. Next to her grave they had marked off another parcel of land, onto which they set the stone image of a gazelle, also the work of Fatima. All around they planted flowering shrubs. This they did in memory of Halima. Every morning they visited this spot and mourned for their lost friends.

Now Fatima assumed Miriam’s position, except that she was in contact with Hasan only through Apama. There were no feuds between the two of them. Apama had become quite solitary. She was often seen hurrying eagerly down the paths, gesticulating excitedly and talking aloud to some invisible person. Maybe one or two of the girls smiled at her on these occasions. But when they were standing before her, they still felt the same old fear. Her skill at eliminating the consequences of their nighttime visits had only limited success. Zuleika, Leila and Sara could feel the new life growing inside them, and were eagerly impatient. Jada and Safiya were the most excited of all. They couldn’t wait for the appearance of a new generation in the gardens.

Hasan sent two new companions to replace the two they had lost. They were both quiet and modest, but at least they brought some change to the eternal monotony.

“It’s autumn already and soon winter will be pressing down upon us,” Hasan said to Apama. They were strolling through one of the uninhabited gardens. “We have to make the most of the warm evenings left to us. I’ll need to send some new youths to the gardens. Because the rains will come, and then the snow and cold after that, and at that point there won’t be any time left for heavenly delights.”

“What are the girls going to do then?”

“You have plenty of camel and lambs’ wool. And silk. Have them weave, knit and sew. Have them practice all their arts. Because Alamut requires everything.”

“What about the school?”

“Do you have anything left to teach them?”

“No, except for the art of love, which they’re incapable of learning anyway.”

Hasan laughed again for the first time in a long while.

“Well, they know plenty for our purposes. You see, I’ve got the same problem as you. I don’t have anyone I can leave my legacy to.”

“You have a son.”

“Yes. I’m waiting for him to be brought to the castle any day now. I’m planning to shorten him by a head.”

Apama looked at him carefully.

“Are you joking?”

“Why should I joke? Does the scoundrel who murdered my brightest right-hand man deserve any better?”

“But he’s your son!”

“My son?! What does that mean? Maybe—maybe, I say, because you know how cautious I am—maybe he’s my physical offspring, but he’s never been my spiritual son. Before I was exaggerating just a bit. Maybe there is somebody after all who will be able to assume my legacy. Except that he’s far away somewhere wandering the world. His name should be familiar to you. It’s ibn Tahir.”

“What did you say? Ibn Tahir? Isn’t he dead? Wasn’t he the one who killed the vizier?”

“Yes, he killed him. But he came back alive and well.”

He told her about his last meeting with him. The story strained her credulity.

“And it was you, Hasan, who released him?”

“Yes, it was me.”

“How is that possible?”

“If you really knew my heart, you’d understand. He had become one of us. My son, my younger brother. Every night I track his progress in my thoughts. And I relive my youth in the process. I worry for him. In my mind I see his eyes being opened, I see him making discoveries, I see his view of the world and his character being formed. Oh, how powerfully I feel with him!”

Apama shook her head. This was a thoroughly new Hasan for her. When he left, she said to herself, “He must be very lonely to have seized onto someone so tightly. Yes, he’s a terrible and a good father.”

The next day the caravan from Gonbadan delivered Hasan’s son Hosein, bound, to Alamut. The whole garrison turned out to see the murderer of the grand dai of Khuzestan with their own eyes.

Shackled in heavy irons, Hosein stared grimly at the ground before him. He was slightly taller than his father, but bore a striking resemblance to him otherwise, except that there was something wild and almost beastly in his eyes. Now and then he cast sidelong glances at the men surrounding him. Each man caught in that glance felt his flesh crawl. It was as though he would have liked to leap at them and tear them into little pieces. Having the chains prevent him from doing that clearly tormented him.

Manuchehr received him as a prisoner.

“Take me to my father now!”

Manuchehr acted as though he didn’t hear him.

“Abuna! Take six men and throw this prisoner in the dungeon!”

Hosein frothed at the mouth.

“Didn’t you hear what I said?”

Manuchehr turned his back on him.

Hosein gritted his teeth. Even though a chain bound his legs together, he managed to kick Manuchehr from behind.

Manuchehr turned around instantly, his face flushed with rage. He swung his arm and landed a blow to Hosein’s face.

Hosein howled with rage.

“Oh, if I were free! I’d rip the guts out of your belly, you dog and son of a dog!”

Abuna and his men seized the prisoner and dragged him off to the dungeon beneath the guard tower, the most notorious one in Alamut. They shoved him roughly into a cell. He staggered and fell on his face.

“You wait! When I get free, I’ll slaughter you like mangy dogs!” he shouted as they locked the door on him.

For two full months he had been in chains. He felt like a wild cat that’s been caught and put in a cage. He came to hate the whole world. He felt that if he were let free, he would strangle the first person he laid hands on. He felt no remorse for having killed Husein Alkeini, nor did he fret for his fate or his life. Even as a child he had terrorized everyone around him. He had an unbridled and violent temper. His father had left him when he was still a small child. Like Khadija and Fatima, he had been born to Hasan’s second wife. He lived with his mother at her parents’ home in Firuz Kuh. His grandfather tried to tame him with the rod and strict fasts. But Hosein was relentless. He defied his grandfather and anyone who got in the way of the pursuit of his passions. His grandfather was also the first person to earn Hosein’s fatal enmity. Once he waited in ambush for him and killed him with a heavy stone. From that day forward his relatives and the whole neighborhood really came to fear him. He refused to work in the fields or even tend the livestock, preferring to spend his time with soldiers and ride their horses.

When they told him that his father had returned from Egypt to the north of Iran, he immediately decided to go looking for him. He knew nothing about him at that point. He had merely heard that he had traveled a great deal and lived a tumultuous and unsettled life, so he imagined that the two of them together would have colorful adventures and enjoy a life of aimless, unpressured vagabondage. But barely had the two met, when he realized how far off the mark he had been. His father demanded precisely those things of him that he most detested and despised: study, obedience and diligence. He quickly came to hate him. At first he managed to hide it somewhat. But soon it exploded from him with full force. “Studying is for idiots, and obedience is for your underlings. I’m not interested in either. Studying stinks and I despise obedience!” “Fine,” Hasan replied. He ordered him bound to a pillar and lashed in front of the entire garrison. Then he handed him over to Husein Alkeini as a foot soldier, to break his spirit. At Gonbadan he rebelled against the grand dai, and when the latter tried to imprison him at Hasan’s order, Hosein killed him.

He hadn’t given much thought to whatever punishment might await him for that murder, nor had it been clear to him how great a crime he had committed in the estimation of the Ismailis. The fact that Husein Alkeini had intended to throw him, the supreme commander’s son, in chains had struck him as so great an injustice that he couldn’t have responded to it in any other way. Moreover, he believed that by dint of his distinguished parentage it went without saying that he was permitted more than others. If only he had been able, he would have done the same thing to sheik ibn Atash, who finally put him in chains. Now he was furious that they had thrown him in this cell instead of immediately taking him to see his father.

Abu Ali notified Hasan that his son had been delivered to the fortress.

“Good. I’ll talk to him. Have them send him to me.”

Abuna and his men came to get the prisoner.

“Get up! Quick! Sayyiduna will see you.”

Hosein grinned wildly, showing all his teeth.

“Praise be to Allah! Soon I’ll be lashing all your backs to ribbons.”

Outside the building of the supreme command Abuna turned him over to the men of Hasan’s bodyguard. A strange, instinctive fear came over him. He could see that since he had left, life at the castle had changed greatly. He could feel a cold, iron discipline everywhere. Everything indicated that the castle was ruled by a firm and powerful hand.

The giant eunuchs in the corridors and at the doorways evoked his distrust. The enormous mace bearer who stood motionless at the top of the stairs, yet whose eyes followed his every movement, struck him as some kind of evil portent for his cause. He would never have thought his father would protect himself so forcefully.

He entered Hasan’s room but remained standing stubbornly near the doorway. His father was sitting on a raised divan and was clearly immersed in studying some documents. Only after a while did he look up at his son. He stood up. He nodded for the guards to withdraw. Then he inspected Hosein from head to foot.

“First take these chains off of me!”

Hosein’s voice was full of defiance.

“What is a criminal without chains?”

“And when has a son ever had to stand before his father in chains?”

“There’s a first time for everything.”

“You’re afraid of me.”

“Even mad dogs have to be tied up until they’re put to sleep.”

“What a wonderful father!”

“You’re right. Now I have to expiate the sin I committed when I begat you.”

“So you don’t intend to free me?”

“I don’t think you have any idea what’s waiting for you for your crime. I’ve established the laws, and I’ll be the first to honor them.”

“Your threats don’t scare me one bit.”

“You idiot! You oaf!”

“Call me names. I don’t care.”

“O heavens! Do you still not realize what sort of crime you’ve committed?!”

“Nobody puts me in chains and gets away with it.”

“So for that you murdered my closest friend and assistant while he was trying to carry out my order?!”

“Does a friend mean more to you than a son?”

“Alas, I’m afraid so.”

“All of Iran can be proud of such a unique father! What are you going to do with me?”

“What sort of punishment have I prescribed for the murder of a superior?”

“I haven’t studied your laws.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’ll tell you myself. The law calls for cutting off the culprit’s right hand, then beheading him in front of the faithful.”

Hosein was dumbstruck.

“You don’t mean to say that that’s going to happen to me?”

“Do you think I wrote my laws just for fun?”

“It’s true. The world will shudder at a father like that.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I guess I don’t.”

“You’re still just as insolent as ever.”

“What do you expect? Like father, like son.”

“I don’t have time to waste on your witticisms. Tomorrow you’ll face a trial before the dais. You know what awaits you. You won’t be speaking to me again. What shall I tell your mother?”

“Thank her for giving me such a model father. Any animal would treat its offspring better.”

“Which is why it’s an animal. Human beings have intelligence and strict but just laws. Is there anything else you want to say?”

“What else is there to say? Do you really think I believe you’d do away with your only son and heir? Who would be your successor then?”

Hasan laughed uproariously.

“You, Hosein, my successor? You can’t really think that you could ever lead this institution, which is built on the supremacy of the mind and on pure reason? You, who don’t understand anything except how to bridle a donkey? Since when have eagles begun leaving their lofty kingdoms to calves? Is that why you think you can do anything you want?”

Hosein tore him apart with his eyes.

“Dogs beget dogs, bulls beget calves. Like father, like son.”

“If that were really true, then you’re not my son!”

“Do you mean to shame my mother with that?”

“Not at all. I just wanted to show that your claim may hold for dogs and bulls, but not for human beings. Otherwise kingdoms that fathers found with their intelligence and courage wouldn’t collapse from the stupidity and ineptitude of their sons.”

“All right. But the world has never known a sultan or a shah who has left his kingdom to a stranger when he had a son of his own flesh and blood.”

“I’ll be the first in that respect too. So do you really have nothing more to ask me? No requests for your mother?”

“Only the one I already made.”

“Fine.”

He called for the guards.

“Take the prisoner to the dungeon!”

Hosein gritted his teeth.

“Just try to have your lackeys put me on trial! I’ll shout your disgrace so the whole world hears.”

The next morning the high court of the dais was convoked. Abu Ali was its chair.

“Examine the laws and then judge strictly according to them.” This is what Hasan had ordered.

Once they were all assembled, guards brought Hosein in.

Abu Ali charged him with two counts: first mutiny, and then the murder of his superior. The punishment for both was death.

Abu Ali asked him, “Do you admit your guilt, son of Hasan?”

“I don’t admit any guilt. All I admit is that I did what you accuse me of doing.”

“Fine. Mutiny alone calls for a sentence of death.”

Hosein flew into a rage.

“Don’t forget that I’m the son of the supreme commander!”

“The law knows no exceptions. You were a common foot soldier under Husein Alkeini, and that is how we accuse you.”

“What? You’re trying to tell me that just anyone can put me in chains?”

“As you see, you’re already in them. Do you really have no defense?”

“What kind of defense do you want from me? Alkeini informed on me to my father behind my back, so he could throw me in jail more easily. I refuse to let anyone treat me like that! I’m not just anyone. I am the son of the Ismaili commander!”

“You mutinied against him. The supreme commander ordered him to restrain you as punishment, at which point you murdered him. Is this what happened?”

“Yes, that’s what happened.”

“Fine. Abdul Malik! Read what the law prescribes for the crime of mutiny against a superior and for the murder of a superior.”

Abdul Malik rose to his full height. He opened a heavy, bound book to the place where a marker had been inserted in it, and he reverently touched his forehead to it. Then he began reading in a solemn voice.

“Whoever among the Ismaili faithful opposes his superior or rebels against an order that his superior gives him, or in any other way avoids carrying out an order, unless he be prevented from so doing by a higher power, is to be put to death by beheading. Whoever among the Ismaili faithful attacks his superior or murders him is to be put to death, first by having his right hand severed and then by beheading.”

Abdul Malik closed the book. He bowed to the dais respectfully and then sat back down.

Abu Ali now spoke.

“High court of the dais! You have heard what the law prescribes for the crime of insubordination against an officer and for the murder of an officer. I will now ask you whether the accused is guilty of the crimes with which he has been charged.”

He turned toward Buzurg Ummid and called out his name.

“Guilty,” came the answer.

“Emir Manuchehr?”

“Guilty.”

“Dai Ibrahim?”

“Guilty.”

“Dai Abdul Malik?”

“Guilty.”

“Dai Abu Soraka?”

“Guilty.”

The verdict was unanimous.

Hosein winced at each name. The whole time he hoped secretly that someone would resist, that someone would see that he had been in the right and that he couldn’t have acted differently. When the last one had pronounced his “guilty,” Hosein howled, “Criminal dogs!”

Chained though he was, he still tried to leap at them. A guard restrained him in time. He ground his teeth and rolled his eyes in helpless rage.

Abu Ali rose solemnly and spoke.

“Grand court of the dais! You have unanimously recognized that the accused is guilty of the crimes of which he stands accused. Therefore, Hosein, son of Hasan and grandson of Sabbah, is condemned to death, first by having his right hand severed, then by beheading, as the law prescribes. The sentence will be carried out once it is signed by the supreme commander. Do any of the honored members of the court have anything to say?”

Buzurg Ummid rose.

“Grand court of the dais!” he said. “You have heard the sentence that has been pronounced on Hosein, son of Hasan, for the murder of the grand dai of Khuzestan. His guilt has been proven and the criminal himself has admitted it. The punishment meted out to him is therefore lawful, just and strict. Let me point out to the high court of the dais, however, that Hosein’s is the first crime of this kind since the supreme commander issued the more stringent law code. And so I propose that we support an appeal to Sayyiduna for mercy, should the accused choose to submit one.”

The dais murmured their approval.

Abu Ali turned toward Hosein.

“Accused! Do you wish to ask the supreme commander for mercy?”

Hosein shouted, enraged.

“No! Never! I will never ask anything of a father who turns his own son over to his henchmen.”

“Think about it, Hosein.”

Buzurg Ummid pleaded with him good-naturedly.

“No! I won’t do it!”

“Don’t be bullheaded! Ask for it!” Abu Ali admonished him angrily.

“Tell him he’s worse than a dog!”

“Hold your tongue, criminal!”

Ibrahim flushed red with anger.

“Me keep my mouth shut, with that stench coming from yours?”

Buzurg Ummid and Abdul Malik approached the prisoner.

“Think about it, son of Hasan,” the grand dai said. “Just ask, and I’ll try to persuade your father.”

“There’s no shame in asking for mercy,” Abdul Malik offered. “It’s a sign that you’re aware of your sin and you intend to improve in the future.”

“You can do whatever you want, as far as I’m concerned,” Hosein finally half-relented.

Abu Ali, Buzurg Ummid and Abdul Malik went to deliver the high court’s verdict to Hasan.

Hasan listened to them calmly. When Buzurg Ummid presented the plea for mercy, he coolly rejected it.

“I established the laws myself,” he said firmly, “and I intend to be the first to respect them.”

“This is the first time an Ismaili has killed his superior.”

“All the more important for us to set an example.”

“Sometimes mercy is more appropriate than harsh justice.”

“Any other time perhaps, but in this case absolutely not. If I pardon Hosein, the faithful will say, ‘Look, the laws apply to us, but not to his son. We’ve always known one crow doesn’t attack another.’”

“But they’ll be horrified if you order the sentence carried out. What kind of father is that!”

Hasan knit his brow.

“I didn’t issue the laws just for sons or just for other than sons. I wrote them to apply to all Ismailis. I am their supreme commander, and I’m responsible for the law. And that’s why I’m signing the death sentence.”

He took the sentence from Abdul Malik’s hands. He read through it carefully. Then he dipped a goose quill in ink and firmly affixed his signature.

“There,” he said. “Abu Ali! You will proclaim the verdict of the high court of the dais to the faithful. Tomorrow morning before the sun comes up the executioner is to perform his duty. Is everything clear?”

“Yes, ibn Sabbah.”

Buzurg Ummid, who had been standing silently off to one side all this time, said, “Perhaps it would be possible to soften the sentence by leaving out its first part?”

“It’s already been signed. Thank you for your work.”

When he was alone again, he said to himself, “My son has been a stumbling block in my edifice. Am I a beast for destroying him? Once begun, the building has to be finished. If your heart is an obstacle, tell it to be silent, because all great things are great in spite of human beings.”